


perceiver

by helium lost (xenoamorist)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Blindness, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Mystery Character(s), Mystery Relationship, Senses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenoamorist/pseuds/helium%20lost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toph Bei Fong may not be able to see, but that doesn't mean she's blind.  Ficlets written for Livejournal's <a href="http://5-sense.livejournal.com/profile">5_sense</a> challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toph, fish, the past, and the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published January 28, 2007.

Toph Bei Fong, daughter of the rich, wealthy, eminent, and prominent Bei Fong family, has tasted the finest food from all around the world (after, of course, the doctor’s confirmation that such food is okay for such a sick, ailing girl). She has eaten roast duck from the farthest reaches of the Fire Kingdom; she has eaten squid and eel from the deep, mysterious seas around Kyoshi Island; she has even eaten wolf meat from the Southern Water Tribes (which, according to her mother as she doled out slices of the tender flesh onto her plate, is _very_ expensive and _very_ hard to come by).

But she has never eaten roasted fish before.

Of course, she has had steamed fish—the flesh so tender and steamed that it melts in her mouth—steamed fish with the taste of onions and cilantro and soy sauce; she has had deep-fried fish, the crunch outside filling her mouth with a savory, rich taste (of course, she was never allowed to eat the fins, even though they were—according to everyone around her—so delicious—she could choke on a bone if she wasn’t careful!). She has had fish smothered in a spicy sauce with tiny squares of tofu mingling with the hot peppers; she has had raw slices of fish layered on top of delicately molded mounds of rice, carefully bundled together with sheets of seaweed.

But she has never had fish that tastes of fire and smoke, fish that just moments ago was wriggling and writhing in the hands of a hunter. She has never had fish that was gutted and cleaned before her, then clumsily speared through with a stick and laid by an open fire to roast and cook.

“Eat up, Toph,” Katara says, handing her a stick with fish on it. “It’s not much, but it’s the best we could do.”

Toph takes the stick, still warm from the fire, and feels the ash tumbling off with the gentle sweep of her hand. She taps the stick, then feels the vibrations that go through the wood and into the fish, picturing it in her mind. Its mouth is open, the tiny teeth piercing the warm air; its fins are splayed out at odd angles, and its body is contorted on the stick. Nothing like the delicately prepared and delicately laid out fish at home—this fish is rugged and _real_.

She takes a hesitant bite of the fish, tasting the unevenly cooked flesh, the pure taste of fish and smoke and fire, with no frilly spices or decorations. She takes another tentative bite.

“Ow!”

Sokka looks up. “You okay?” he asks, taking big bites out of his own fish.

Toph coughs. “I think I have a bone in my throat,” she says weakly, coughing again.

Sokka shrugs. “Happens all the time—here, have some water and just relax. You’ll be fine.”

Toph nods and takes the canteen, swallowing down gulps of water. She takes a deep breath, and notices that her throat is clear of the prickling sensation.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, then takes another bite of fish. A moment of silence passes.

Toph Bei Fong has dined, all her life, in the finest halls of the Earth Kingdom. She has eaten off golden plates and used chopsticks made of jade; she has sat in stiff-backed, expensive redwood chairs from the depths of the Fire Kingdom, with seat cushions of finely embroidered, golden silk, hand-woven and hand-embroidered by the finest artisans of the Earth Kingdom; her hands have touched smooth, polished mahogany and jewel-encrusted thrones of precious gold and silver.

But here, Toph sits on a throne of dead leaves and twigs, her lap the only table available, this stick the only utensil she can use; she swallows another bite of fish and declares, “This is the best fish I’ve ever tasted.”

Sokka blushes and Katara laughs.


	2. Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smells like four o'clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published January 29, 2007.

They say that dog-bears have a better sense of smell than that of humans—something like nine, ten times better.

Of course, they have never met Toph Bei Fong.

Although Toph Bei Fong’s sense of smell does not surpass her sense of hearing, it is still—so she’s been told—amazingly good. She can smell the butterflies fluttering out after a spring shower; she can smell mud squishing up through her toes after a fresh rain; she can smell the first leaf of autumn falling, carried by a loving wind.

“Smells like four o’clock,” she says one day as she, Sokka, Katara, and Aang are walking through a deep forest.

Sokka turns around from his position at the front of the line. Panting, he sheaths his machete and crosses his arms, beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face.

“It can’t _smell_ like four o’clock,” he says in a snappy tone. “It can _feel_ like four o’clock, but it sure as hell can’t _smell_ like four o’clock.”

Toph crosses her arms and plant both her feet in a reply. “Yes, it can, and I say that it smells like four o’clock. In fact, now, it smells like four o’ one.”

Sokka rolls his eyes as Katara giggles at his expression.

“Yeah, whatever.”

He unsheathes his machete again and begins hacking away anew at the low-hanging vines, trudging through the thick carpet of dead leaves. Aang quickens his step to catch up with Toph.

“That’s amazing!” he says to her, a twinkle in his eye. “How do you know? How can you _tell_?”

Toph sighs, stops, and points abruptly to her left. “You see that flower there? That’s a four o’clock flower, and it’s just opened. So it smells like four o’clock.”

Aang looks at where Toph is pointing, and sure enough, right in front of her finger is a cluster of flowers, pink and white and red, still slowly but surely opening. Aang watches as the flower irons out the last wrinkles in its velvety dress, then laughs. Sokka, irritated, turns around and glares at Toph and Aang.

“Will you two _please_ hurry up?” he growls. “We have to get to the village by six, remember? And, at this pace, we’ll be lucky to get there by midnight.”

Toph frowns, sighs, and quickens her pace until she’s walking right behind Sokka, every so often stepping on his heels (she is, of course, fully aware of this, and does this just to spite him). She rolls her eyes and inhales deeply. Sokka smells like sweat and muscle, like clothing washed hastily in the sweet waters of a flowing river, like thin strands of hair sticking to skin and poking into eyes. He smells like curses and frustration, like dirt and cuts, like rocks and gravel stuck into the treads of shoes.

He smells nothing like the sweet jasmine ladies of her parents’ court; he smells nothing like the spicy smell of aftershave that so often lingers behind in her father’s bedroom.

She decides that she likes it.


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing works in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published January 30, 2007.

“Just my luck,” Sokka mutters, numbly holding the pieces of his boomerang in his hands. “Just. My. Luck.”

Katara sighs as she bends out a bit of water, coaxing it over to her cuts and bruises and healing them with a wince. “At least we’re all safe… a moment longer and Azula would’ve killed us all.”

Sokka frowns. “But that just makes it worse! Yeah, sure, Aang has a broken arm, you have some cuts and bruises, I have some nasty scratches here and there, Toph has a sprained ankle—but just the _lack_ of any effect makes this all the more real and painful, don’t you understand?” He bites his lip. “I feel as if I’ve lost a friend.”

Aang sighs. “Sokka, I’m sorr—”

Sokka shakes his head. “Don’t blame yourself, Aang—the one who’s at fault is me. I overlooked that one detail—that one tiny, tiny detail—and look where it got us: We’re probably going to be delayed for a week, at the least, and my boomerang’s busted. Destroyed. _Dead._ ”

Toph rolls her eyes as she massages her swollen ankle. “Stop your whining and blubbering. What’s so special about that hunk of metal, anyway? You can always get another one at the next village.”

Sokka inhales sharply and falls silent, the words caught in his throat. He takes a few shallow breaths, then lets his hands fall limp as he turns and walks away, toward the river. The pieces of his boomerang fall to the ground, the sound of their impact muffled by the layer of leaves. Katara looks up, hastily bends the water back into her canteen, and rises.

“Sokka!” she calls out, but he doesn’t hear her. She sighs, runs a hand through her hair, and sits next to Toph.

“Listen—” she says, then hesitates. “It’s probably kind of obvious, but… that boomerang’s special to Sokka. Where we used to live, it was almost impossible to get metal—all of our boats are made of wood, and even most weapons we have are made of animal teeth or bone or something similar—not metal. So, you know… Well, Mom and Dad got it for him for his tenth birthday. It cost a _lot_ —it was all the way from Omashu and all—and, well… that was the last time he saw Mom alive.”

Toph looks at Katara, puzzled. “Your parents gave Sokka a real weapon? When he was _ten_?” She frowns as Katara nods, then traces a swirl in the dirt with her toe. “All I got was a lousy doll that was taken away from me again later because my parents found a pin in it that the dollmaker had forgotten to take out.”

Katara frowns. “Well—”

Toph stands and winces as her ankle shakes beneath her weight.

“Toph, you really shouldn’t be straining—” Katara begins, but Toph ignores her. She bends down and picks up the pieces of Sokka’s boomerang, careful to get every last shard. Then, with her brow furrowed, she grits her teeth, plants her feet (ignoring the pain stabbing up at her from her ankle), and brings her hands together. Katara covers her mouth and gasps, but confusion crosses her face as she realizes that no blood drips from Toph’s palms, and that the metal—the metal is moving and melting and _changing_.

When Toph parts her hands again, Katara is amazed to see Sokka’s boomerang looking as if it had never been shattered.

“How did you—” she begins, but Toph turns and limps toward the river. She stands behind Sokka, hesitating, then takes a couple more uncertain steps and thrusts her hand out at him.

“Here,” she mumbles, then looks to the side. “Sorry that I… sorry.”

Sokka turns, and his eyes light up when he sees the sunlight gleaming off the shiny metal of his boomerang. The boomerang is smooth and cold in Toph’s hand, and Sokka’s hands are so warm and coarse and callused as he shakily lifts the boomerang from her palms and gazes at it in awe. He runs a thumb along the razor-sharp edge, ignoring the shallow cut he receives and the droplets of blood that leak out. But he furrows his brow as he examines what he initially thought was a scratch on the otherwise flawless metal.

“Toph, is that… a mongoose-lizard?”

Toph stiffens.

“No, it’s a polar wolf-bear, for your information. I thought it might—I, well, the whole warrior thing and all.”

Sokka raises an eyebrow.

“Still looks like a mongoose-lizard to me.”

Toph swings her right arm and punches Sokka in the face, savoring the feel of his rapidly bruising flesh beneath her clenched fingers.


	4. Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's music, and then there's _true_ music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published February 4, 2007.

Toph Bei Fong, for twelve years of her life, has only ever heard courtly music. It’s not necessarily _bad_ music—the songs are like tiny seashells strung on a golden thread, hung up over the ceilings to whisper as the night wind blows past. And they are accompanied by the soft clapping of hands and tendrils of soft, girlish laughter, tiny peals of laughter like silver bells, their sound reaching up to touch the ceiling.

To be honest—it’s rather boring.

So Toph finds herself thrilled when she hears the discordant melody of Aang, Katara, and Sokka playing with the instruments that they had rescued from being dumped (“Please, mister, since you’re about to throw them away, can we have them?”). They don’t even know the names of the instruments—they’re just referred to as “that instrument with four strings”, “that thing that looks like a flute but isn’t quite a flute”, and “that thing with all the little planks of wood that you hit with those hammer things”.

In the house of Bei Fong, all the instruments had their own names. There was the lute. The Sunghi horn. The _qin_. The ocarina, the oboe, the _zhu_ , the fiddle, the… All their names became a muddle. Frankly, Toph had never been very interested in the instruments—the way the old geezers talked about music and about pentatonic scales, major thirds and perfect fifths, arpeggios and diminished chords, talking about the way all these elements could be arranged almost by a formula into a musical equation that always, inevitably, sounded _dead_.

But this discordance—the sound of “that thing that looks like a flute but isn’t quite a flute” mirrors the sound of crows cawing in the distance; the sound of the twanging and plucking of “that instrument with four strings” mirrors the creaking sound of the branches blowing in the wind; the sound of “that thing with all the little planks of wood that you hit with those hammer things” mirrors the sound of her skipping rocks across the surface of the calm, placid lake by which they are seated.

And, somehow, it all _fits_ , and it’s all so simply and utterly _alive_.

Toph stands and walks over to the trio, sitting outside their triangular formation. Aang scoots to the side and Toph tentatively joins in. Aang stops playing “that thing that looks like a flute but isn’t quite a flute” and smiles.

“Want to try?” he says, offering the instrument to Toph, who takes it and runs her fingers over it.

Toph frowns. “I don’t know—I never played anything like this before. They always said that I’d overexert myself and get light-headed and dizzy from playing too much.”

Aang laughs. “Oh, come on. Just try it.”

Toph shrugs and brings the instrument to her lips, blowing a first note that sounds oddly clear, wavering with a pleasant springiness. Surprised, she continues blowing, occasionally covering one hole, then covering two, then covering another two, leaving one open between them. As she begins to adjust to and recognize the sounds she’s playing, she carefully destroys those formulae and principles of pentatonic scales and minor chords, of suspension and of the use of grace notes, and plays whatever notes she feels are ringing in her heart.

The resulting melody is unpredictable, yet somehow stable, and Toph feels the earth shifting beneath her to sing. She pauses to take a breath, then takes the instrument away from her lips—leaving the melody to linger in the air, unfinished yet decidedly _done_.

The others are silent around her, savoring the last notes lingering in the air.

“That was incredible, Toph,” Katara breathes after a moment, and Toph brushes the hair from her face.

“Nah,” she says, then raises her eyebrows. “C’mon, why aren’t you guys playing? Here, Aang, you play too.”

They hesitantly pick up their instruments again, and tentatively pluck a few notes out, but within a few minutes, they are back to their banging and plucking and squeaking, and the forest behind them and air around them are filled once again with the sound of crows cawing, tree branches creaking, and rocks being skipped across a smooth lake.

And that, Toph decides, is the best music she’s ever heard— _true_ music.


	5. Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She sees, but does she really _see_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published February 4, 2007.

Toph was born blind, and, honestly—she thinks she likes it better that way. Sight seems to be so much more troublesome.

The sunlight slants in through the window, illuminating the room and the flurried movement within.

“Ahh, Toph,” her nanny says, brushing her hair and making her wince, “you look lovely tonight. And your mother has picked out the prettiest dress for you—it’s a lovely red dress, a truly royal color; everyone will be so glad to see you.”

Toph furrows her brow. “What’s _red_? What’s _color_?” Because, although she can see—with her feet, with her hands, with her nose, with her ears, with her tongue—she can’t truly _see_.

Her nanny hesitates. “Red is—red is a very bright color,” she says at last.

Toph frowns. “Bright?”

Her nanny bites her lip, furrows her brow, and says after another moment, “Bright is—bright is like the sun. Like—when your eyes hurt looking at it—or—well—red is the color of roses and the sunset and—”

Toph’s frown deepens. “I don’t understand.”

Her nanny sighs and pulls the dress over her head. “Well—You don’t need to. After all—well, they say that beauty comes from within anyway.”

Toph pops her head out from the collar. “Beauty?”

“Hush, child,” her nanny says crossly, gently pushing her out of the room. “You’ll be late for the party.”

* * *

Toph finds it hard to believe that it’s only been a year since that incident—it feels more like two, maybe, or three, or maybe ten.

“Katara,” Sokka calls out, “do you think this green bag looks better, or this red one? Or maybe this blue one?”

Katara rolls her eyes. “Sokka, just pick one and let’s go.”

Sokka frowns. “But if I’m going to spend the money to get a new bag, I might as well pick one that I like and that’s a good color!”

Toph sighs as she stands behind them. “I don’t see what’s so important about this whole _color_ thing,” she says grumpily. “From what my nanny said, it doesn’t seem like much. Then again, I don’t think she did a very good job of explaining it.”

“Well, let me explain,” says Sokka. “Color is the phenomenon that happens when light hits an object. And the object—well, the object decides that it wants to be, say, red, or blue, and it changes the light that it gets to turn into that color.”

Katara raises an eyebrow.

“Really,” she says, smirking.

“Really!” Sokka insists. “That’s what the scientists in Ba Sing Se are saying. Well—okay—there are a lot of flaws in the theory, like—how in the world can an object decide what color it wants to be? But I’m sure it’ll be worked out in a little while. You just wait and see.”

Toph frowns, caught between them. “What’s light? What does that have to do with color? I still don’t understand what color is.”

Katara’s face softens as she takes a step back and places a hand on Toph’s shoulder.

“ Color is…” she begins, then hesitates as Sokka smirks behind her, daring her to explain color. “Color is—the sugar on the top of a cake. The seeds on a strawberry. The warmth of Momo’s hands, the smell of a flower. It’s that little something extra that adds to an object.”

Toph rolls her eyes. “I can eat a cake without sugar. Seeds on a strawberry bother me. Momo’s hands are cold lots of times, and some flowers smell disgusting. I don’t see why Sokka has to spend so much time looking for the _perfect_ bag.”

Katara laughs. “Me neither. But, well—color makes people happy. Okay, well, it can make them sad sometimes too, but isn’t that how life is?”

Toph sighs. “But what’s so special about this _red_ and what makes it so different from _green_ and _blue_?”

Katara rubs her chin. “Well—different colors are—different. Okay, no, let me start over. Red is—let’s see, how can I describe this— _red_ is love and passion, is the feeling of rose petals beneath your fingertips, is the taste of spicy food. And it’s also the color of blood—that metallic odor that you smell when you get a cut. It’s—a very strong color. Very vivid—I guess you could say it’s the color of life.”

Toph furrows her brow, thinking. “And _blue_ and _green_?”

Katara smiles. “ _Blue_ —that’s easy. Blue is the feeling of water running over your fingertips, that cool, soothing feeling of a wound healing over, the smell of rain and the sound of rivers running and the feeling of an empty sky. Blue is the chill of ice and the smell of salt and the ocean. Blue is water—a deep color. But sometimes blue rears back its head and becomes intense and vivid—like Aang’s tattoos, which are blue, when he goes into the Avatar state—and sometimes it pierces through you—like—well, like Sokka’s eyes, actually.”

Toph’s breath catches in her throat—she knows that feeling all too well. “Yeah,” she murmurs, then presses on: “What about _green_?”

Katara takes in a breath. “Oh, green, where can I even begin? Green is so much. Green is—the sound of leaves rustling against each other in the spring. The feel of wet grass tangled between your fingers—the sharp taste of a fruit that’s not ripe yet. The smell of cucumbers. It’s a very soothing color—it’s the color of earth. Well, okay, it would be weird if dirt were green, but other than that, green is the earth. It cradles you and rocks you to sleep—under a calm, deep blue sky, dotted with stars.”

Toph smiles. “I think green is my favorite color, then.”

Katara laughs. “Oh, but there are even more colors still! There yellow— orange—purple—brown—black—white—and so many shades in between.”

Toph’s smile widens. “Tell me about them later—I like your explanations more than my nanny’s. I think—I think I know what they are now, these _colors_.” She turns to Sokka, who is still engrossed in his shopping for bags—the three bags are laid out beside each other, and Sokka is inspecting them each, one by one, as if they were precious jewels, rather than just bags.

“Sokka,” Toph says, “pick the green one. I like green.”

Sokka raises his eyebrows. “How can you—?” he begins, but he sees the determined look on Toph’s face and shrugs. “Well, all right. I was thinking of getting the green one, anyway.” And he pulls out the money bag and digs around for a gold coin, which he uses to pay the merchant.

A few moments later the three of them return to the clearing where Appa, Momo, and Aang are; Aang looks up from brushing Appa’s fur and waves.

“You guys ready to go? And nice bag, Sokka—it doesn’t really match the color of your clothes, though.”

Sokka hits his head. “Darn it! I knew we should’ve gotten the blue one!”

Katara laughs and helps Toph up to Appa’s saddle. “Let’s get going, guys—since Sokka wasted so much time shopping for _bags_ of all things, we’re going to have to rush to get there on time.”

Sokka frowns and crosses his arms. “Hmph.”

The three of them sit on Appa’s saddle as Aang climbs up to the front and takes hold of Appa’s reins.

“Yip yip!”

And they lift off and soar up into the blue sky. Katara smiles and begins to tell Toph about the other colors—orange, the smell of the aptly named orange tinging the air; yellow, the feeling of sunlight on your skin; purple, the taste of a grape bursting in your mouth; brown, the rough feeling of tree bark beneath your fingers; white, the utter and pure cold of snow that surpasses the chill of blue; black, the deepest color, the feeling of night at the South Pole.

Later, when they’ve quieted down—when Katara and Sokka have fallen asleep and when Aang has drifted off into that almost meditative state—Toph opens her mouth (the taste of fresh spring mist), opens her nose (the smell of warm fur dampened by sweat), opens her fingers (the feeling of rough cloth gripped in her hand), opens her ears (the sound of their breathing, a harmonic trio of three voices), and opens her _eyes_ —

She can almost imagine them, their soft skin, their callused hands, their individual scents, their hair whipping in the wind, and imagines for a minute that she knows what _color_ means (no, she says to herself after a while, she now _knows_ —Sokka’s skin must be green, for his skin is surprisingly soft and soothing; Katara’s hair must be red, vivid and alive and whipping everywhere; Aang’s insides must be blue, because Toph knows that he’s usually calm, but that he can get intense—frightening—unpredictable)—and then she opens her eyes again, and, all of a sudden, with their hands in hers… she can _see_ —and she suddenly, truly, understands what _beauty_ means.


	6. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the toughest fighters can love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future!fic wherein Toph gets married. I did not specify who she gets married to and do not plan on specifying who it is. (Especially because I never picked someone and prefer the ambiguity.)
> 
> Originally published on April 3, 2007.

Toph Bei Fong does not “love” things. “Love” is a sissy word used by her mother’s sissy friends who sit around (like sissies) in the living room, talking about nonsense like the weather and flower arrangements and who was getting married to whom. (They could all just go and kill each other for all Toph cared; _she’d_ rather be out _stomping_ on flowers than arranging them into some asinine formation that would eventually get undone _anyway_.)

“She said he _loved_ her!” exclaimed one of the ladies sitting by her mother. She then dropped her voice to a hushed whisper and added, “Of course, that’s what they _all_ say. Got engaged with her, took her dowry, and when the wedding day finally rolled around… Alone! Absolutely _alone_! Turns out he had a mistress in the countryside who had already borne him two children… hence why he needed the dowry. To support her. He was one of those bums—always borrowing money from everyone.”

Another lady tutted disapprovingly. “Don’t know what she _saw_ in him, the fool. I suppose she had it coming.”

Toph rolled her eyes and tapped the side of the table softly, trying to see what was on it. She could faintly make out the smoky outlines of the vases and the flowers scattered on the table top. She reached out, and her fingers brushed against velvety petals—but only for a moment.

“No, no, Toph, don’t touch that,” said her mother, snatching the flowers away from her grasp, and Toph sighed, propping her face up with her hands as her mother continued to speak. “You could get hurt—there are thorns _all over_ these roses!”

“Mother, they’re just _flowers_ ,” Toph said, and she didn’t even have to make any movement to know that her mother was shaking her head.

“No, sweetie. Who knows—maybe there’s a particularly sharp thorn. Don’t want you getting injured now, my precious baby!”

Toph sighed, rolled her eyes, and slumped back into the cushioned back of the chair.

“And did you hear about that silly prince in the other kingdom, years ago… Prince Ruoko, I think it was? Tried to woo the stony princess…”

“Soon as I can,” Toph murmured under her breath, attempting to shut out the steady stream of chatter from the flower-arranging ladies, “I’m out.”

* * *

But… at the same time, there was really no other word that would quite encompass the feeling that she had right now. The bright sunlight illuminated her face as she smiled hesitantly. Her mother had, of course, disapproved—bad luck not to cover the wife’s face on wedding day! But Toph figured that it was pointless—covering a _blind_ person’s face! She held her head up high and cast her milky-white gaze over all the guests. Beneath her long, silk robes, she was, of course, barefoot, and she saw very clearly the incredulous expressions on everyone’s faces.

Toph Bei Fong? Getting _married?_

She had the red kerchief on over her head, and she stood before her mother, hands clutching her bouquet of roses so hard that the thorns dug into her flesh and made her bleed. Minutes of silence passed between them as they both waited. With each second that ticked by, her mother’s face began to grow sterner and sterner as Toph’s smile turned itself into a straight line, and then a frown.

“What are you doing?” hissed her mother out of the side of her mouth. “You’re supposed to cry right now. Don’t make me lose face in front of all of these people.”

Toph shook her head, then grinned again. “Why should I cry? In fact… why _would_ I cry?”

She nodded her head to her mother, then looked around at the assembled guests with her blind gaze. Her grin spread wider, and without another pause, she turned and dashed across the hallway into the open arms of her husband-to-be, flinging her bouquet behind her (where it landed smack-dab in the middle of the punch bowl, splashing all the guests around it with the sweet drink). Her husband-to-be picked her up and twirled her around in the air, then set her down again and looked back at the astonished crowd. With a sheepish grin, he hastily bowed three times before grabbing her hand and making for the door. When he got to the magnificent doorframe, he turned back and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Food ‘n drinks are on me, of course!” he shouted before laughing uproariously, pulling Toph by the hand and out into the open air. Toph’s laughter was uncontrollable as she trampled through the mud, trailing her brilliant red robes in the dirt and caking them with the thick mixture of dirt and blades of grass. Toph’s mother pursed her lips and sighed as the stunned silence left in their wake gradually began to dissipate and turn into steady chatter.

“I never did approve of that young fellow,” she said, pulling up a chair for herself and seating herself on the plush cushion. She sighed, then buried her face in her hands. After a moment, a strange noise erupted from between her fingers, and as the moments passed, she began to break out into giggles.

“Just like how _my_ mother never approved of Lao…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cultural notes:**   
> 
> 
>   * In traditional Chinese weddings, the daughter is expected to cry in front of the mother to show her reluctance to leave home. (Hence why Toph _didn't_ cry.)  
> 
>   * The husband is expected to bow three times when he enters the chamber in which the wedding is being held—once for his ancestors, once for his parents, and once for his spouse.  
> 
> 



	7. Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes open, eyes closed; on this sea of sheets, the world is dark, and she's blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future!fic. Can be read as a standalone; can be read as a continuation of "Love". This chapter contains non-explicit sex; again, the male character involved has been left unspecified.
> 
> Originally published on June 26, 2010.

It’s a strange sensation, being held while sleeping on linen sheets. Toph never did like sleeping in a bed—sure, it was more comfortable, in a conventional sense, but she had always much preferred sleeping outside, under the stars, with her feet flat on the ground. Sleeping with her eyes open, in a sense—aware of every movement around her, every twitch of every animal, every shiver of every pebble, every breath of every blade of grass surrounding her as the scent of damp soil fills her nostrils.

No, it’s not that this bed isn’t comfortable, or that his touch isn’t warm and loving—she’s never felt softer fabrics, never sunk into something as cloudy-light and fluffy as this mattress, never felt so comfortable as she is now, with her head in the crook between his shoulder and chest and with his arm around her waist. It’s just that, with her feet up on the sheets, feeling only the texture of hundreds of threads against her skin, she feels…

Vulnerable.

He opens his eyes.

“Hey lovely,” he says, smiling down at her, “Can’t sleep?”

Her eyes are open, milky white, shining in the darkness. “Yeah.”

A rustling of sheets as he shifts and lies on his side, head resting against his palm, elbow against the pillow. A few strands of hair fall into his eyes. “Something wrong?”

Her gaze darts across the room. She can still smell the flowers that they had picked after the wedding; they’re starting to wilt now, after a few hours, but their scent is still strong and sweet. She can hear how still the air is, both inside the room and out, and she can hear the sound of his foot rubbing gently, back and forth, aimlessly, along the sheets. She can feel her long, jet-black hair tickle at her bare shoulder; she runs her fingertips along the smooth skin of his shoulder, tracing the gentle curves of his muscles down to his hand, where their fingertips touch. She leans in forward and takes a big breath, smells his scent—so utterly male, masculine, _yang_ , even after his bath—and she imagines that his scent wafts into her mouth, and she can feel his essence on her tongue.

But—eyes open, eyes closed; on this sea of sheets, the world is dark, and she’s blind.

He takes a strand of her hair between his fingers and twirls it, then runs his hand down her back, tracing the arc, the curve, resting his palm on the small of her waist as he looks at her.

“Come on,” he says gently, smiling softly at her, “tell me.” A pause as his hand moves up to rub her back. “You know you can tell me anything.”

She sighs. “I just—it’s just that—” She bites her lower lip, her brow furrowed. She reaches her hands up and places them on his cheeks, spreads her fingers like the fan of a peacock’s tail and traces the bone, the muscle, every pore on his skin with those tiny fingers, slim, yet callused after years of bending the earth.

He holds her wrist gently. His hand feels so big—his fingers go all the way around, and then some. Her skin is still pale, even though she’s out for hours a day, still practicing her earthbending, still keeping herself in tip-top shape even though she hasn’t fought a soul in ages. He lets out a little breath and holds her, cradling and cocooning her tiny body in his. Their curves meet, fit, complete each other, the embroidered silk of her undergarments rough against the bare skin of his chest; she closes her eyes, hands resting against his shoulders, fingers gently curled as her stiff body gradually relaxes into his.

He gently rubs his cheek against hers. “You can tell me,“ he murmurs, the moonlight catching on his open eyes, shining and bright.

“I…” she begins, then pauses, burrowing her face into his smooth, bare chest, marveling at how loud his heartbeat sounds, marveling at how lovely he is, how beautiful he is, even when the world is dark to her. “I love this bed… I love being with you like this… I love being _together_ like this; I just—” Another pause, another breath. “I can’t _see_.”

He grins. In one swift move, he hugs her tightly around her chest, then rolls onto his back with her on top of him. She shrieks and he laughs. Her eyes are wide; his are half-closed in mirth.

“Don’t _do_ that!” she says, breathlessly, lifting herself off of him, her arms trembling on either side of him with her palms against the sheets. He smirks up at her.

“You’re such an earthbender,” he says, then laughs again as she gives him an indignant look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smiles, then pulls her down again so that the gentle swell of her chest and the smooth plane of his are touching. She lets out another breathless yelp as he wraps his strong arms around her.

“Be more like water,” he says, then begins to rock her gently. “Go with the flow. Yield. Fill the container you’re in. Be gentle, limber.” He plants a kiss on her neck, and she gasps as her whole body tingles. “Don’t be so tough and hard and firm and stubborn all the time, insisting that you’re strong until the moment an earthquake breaks you.” He plants another kiss on her collarbone, and she lets out another soft cry as her cheeks flush.

“But I—” she begins, but he hushes her with a finger against her lips.

“Shh,” he says, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand, “just go with it.”

He kisses her cheek and her breath catches in her throat; she gasps when his lips meet hers—tender, gentle as his hands wander over her body, sending shivers and sparks throughout her body. They’re lying on their sides again, her hand resting against his waist, his hand stroking her hair and her back.

He pauses, breaks the kiss. She hears him moving against the sheets as he tugs off the last bits of fabric that separate him from her, then feels his hand at her back, fingers tracing little circles around the ribbon that laces herself away from him.

“May I?”

She’s shy, unsure—she’s never been this close to him before, this _kind_ of close to him before, and of course there’s that element of fear, of hesitation—but she feels a warmth for him bubbling up from inside of her.

 _Go with the flow…_

She nods.

He tugs at the bow, and the last gate falls as she pulls away the covering and lets it fall to the ground beside the bed.

He’s gentle with her as he takes her into his arms, strokes her, then lays her down on her back as he continues to rain kisses down upon her and makes her shiver and cry out. She’s nervous, vulnerable, unsure of where he’ll touch next, unsure of what he’ll do next, and she lets that show with him—she doesn’t hide it, doesn’t raise her wall of toughness and stubbornness like she does with the rest of the world. She can’t see him, but she can still feel his smiles, feel his love, feel his warmth as he caresses her, strokes her, reaches down and pleases her. Little gasps escape past her coral-pink lips as she squeezes her eyes shut, lost in his touch.

Her wall is down, her gates are open, and she allows him to enter her—and she feels safe with him; she rocks in a sea of pleasure, waves cresting and crashing ashore; her lips tingle, her hands grab at his back. She doesn’t _need_ to see, not now—nor hear, nor taste, nor smell nor touch; she simply needs to _be_ , to love, to _move_ with him, together as one in their own moonlit ocean.

 _Go with the flow_ —she relaxes her body, lets herself flow into him, and cries out as the final wave of pleasure crests and breaks and he flows into her.


	8. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never belittle Toph Bei Fong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-series.
> 
> Originally published on August 11, 2011.

To say that she wasn’t nervous would have been a total and utter lie. Her heart pounded in her chest; sweat beaded up under her headband. Her hands trembled; she mapped out in her mind’s canvas the others standing in the room: some tall, some short, some solid and brawny, some slender and agile... all looking bloodthirsty and ready for a fight.

 _You’re going to kick their butts_ , she reminded herself, _no matter how big or strong they look. You’re going to kick_ all _their butts._

She placed one dirty foot before the other and stood at the back of the line leading up to the registration table; she could feel the eyes staring at her, could hear the snickers and laughter.

 _You’re going to kick all their butts, and you’ll do it so fast that they won’t even know what hit ’em._

She held her head up high, her eyes fixed straight forward. Only a few minutes passed before she found herself at the head of the line. The man seated there raised an eyebrow.

“Now now, little girl, isn’t it past your bedtime? Mommy and Daddy must be worried sick wondering where their precious wittle baby is.” A slow grin played across his face; he drummed his fingers against the table. “How old are you, even? Seven? Eight?”

Toph shot him a glare; his drumming paused. “Nine.”

“Ah. Nine years old. So much more mature than eight years old, hmm?” He shuffled his papers, then waved her off. “Run along now and let the big boys play.”

She felt her cheeks burning and her heart beating faster. The man towering behind her grinned.

“Come on, make way, make way,” he said. His thigh plowed into her side as he stepped around her; she planted her feet more firmly and held her ground. She glared up at him as his grin spread wider as the others around them guffawed. “Didn’t your mommy ever tell you? Fighting’s not for girls. This is a man’s world—go on, go back home and do whatever it is girls do. Cook. Sew. Go play with your dolls.” He laughed, the muscles of his neck bulging as he did. “Go on. Scram!” He stepped forward to the table, his heels kicking dirt up into her face; he scribbled his name on the entries list.

Another man smiled gently and leaned forward, whispering, “Listen, it’s not safe for you to be here. This is a rough and tough crowd—brawny guys, most of them with no reservations about hitting a little girl. I’ll walk you home. You shouldn’t be running around after dark—all sorts of shady characters on the streets here.” He reached out a hand. “What do you say? Your parents must be wondering where you are.”

Toph balled her hands into fists, her head still held high, her calm exterior masking the blood boiling underneath.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, then stomped her foot on the ground, conjuring up a pillar of earth that rammed into the man before her and sent him flying across the room; he hit the wall with a _thud_ and slid to the ground, out cold. “But,” she said as she stepped up to the desk and stared down the man seated behind it, “I can take care of myself.”

She leaned over and the man tensed; smirking, she picked up the brush and wrote in carefully practiced words that did not betray the fact that she could neither see nor feel the paper before her:

 _The Blind Bandit._


End file.
